


Strung

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Catholic Rosary, Come Sharing, Dean's Jewelry, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Jealous Castiel, Jewelry, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 19:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: It starts with a rosary.Dean owns plenty of the things, from flat hematite beads to rounded plastic bits, all blessed by the nearest priest and stuffed in into a pouch at the bottom of his duffel. Purely for exorcisms, never any that he intends to wear. Normally he buys them from thrift stores or strings them together if he’s in a hurry; those never last a day, and the blessings he whips together never quite hold.Today, he happens upon a small box at a yard sale, surrounded by other even more ornate necklaces and bracelets, and a few rings too gaudy for practical wear.





	Strung

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place vaguely in the period where Sam is gone in 5x2-5x4. Also known as my ode to Dean's missing jewelry.

It starts with a rosary.

Dean owns plenty of the things, from flat hematite beads to rounded plastic bits, all blessed by the nearest priest and stuffed in into a pouch at the bottom of his duffel. Purely for exorcisms, never any that he intends to wear. Normally he buys them from thrift stores or strings them together if he’s in a hurry; those never last a day, and the blessings he whips together never quite hold.

Today, he happens upon a small box at a yard sale, surrounded by other even more ornate necklaces and bracelets, and a few rings too gaudy for practical wear. He picks up the case and slips the top off, pulling free a string of white beads, hooked to a Saint Raphael centerpiece. The crucifix, held square in the middle of his palm, is solid silver, worn from years of probable wear, but it still catches the light when he holds it to the sky. A safety pin holds two broken ends together, but it’s nothing he can’t fix.

“Collector?” the woman behind the makeshift desk asks, catching Dean’s attention. She can’t be older than sixty, hair just on the edge of white, blue eyes near-silver.

Inexplicably, Dean softens around her, hackles loosened for the first time in days. “Kinda. How much is this one?”

Standing, the woman looks over the rosary, then back to Dean. “Normally it’d be ten bucks, but we’re fifty percent off today, and that one’s been picked over all weekend. How do you feel about three?”

Three sounds perfect, considering the most he has left is a twenty dollar bill. “I’ll do it for that,” he says with a grin. Before he fishes his wallet from his back pocket, he picks up two bracelets—one with carved wooden beads and another with the same white beads as the rosary—and an onyx ring, bringing his total to seven dollars. Spur of the moment, but he’s always had a habit of picking up something along the way, mostly to replace the ones he’s lost over the years.

The rosary, though—hopefully, he can hold on to that one.

-+-

Sam is out by the time Dean returns to the motel, wallet lighter but coat pocket full. Whether in another city or at a bar, he could care less, as long as he can spend some time by himself, tinkering with his new finds.

Afternoons in the summer slog on for longer than they should, Dean has always felt. Stripped down to a single t-shirt and jeans, he rifles through his bag until he can find the cloth bag he keeps stowed away, filled with pliers and other equipment, all supposedly to be used for retrofitting bullets and other actual necessities. In his free time, Dean fidgets, just to keep his hands busy. He knows how to fix almost anything he gets his hands on, jewelry being no exception.

Wingbeats greet him as soon as he strings the one loose bead onto a new eyehook, safety pin between his lips. Strange as it is, Dean doesn’t flinch this time, instead preening when Castiel treads closer, coattails swishing as he walks. With deft fingers, he feeds the bead into the finding and hooks both ends of the rosary together, completing the loop, all while Castiel watches, something akin to wonder in his eyes.

At least, for a few seconds. As soon as he catches sight of the centerpiece, Castiel’s gaze hardens, lips pulled into a thin line. “Where did you find this?” he asks, plucking the item from Dean’s hands by the crucifix, twirling the strand around his fingers. Dean admires how he moves, the subtle flex of his hand as he counts each and every bead, pausing over the larger ones to mutter something into empty air. A prayer, perhaps—or, a spell.

Whatever it is, Dean can’t tear his eyes away. “Yard sale up the street,” he croaks, clearing his throat. “Saw the sign, figured maybe I’d find something useful. You think it’s any good?”

“You did a remarkable job repairing it,” Castiel comments, thumbing over the centerpiece. “At some point in the past, this had been blessed by an angel.”

Dean blinks, lips parting. “What, like, some poor sap couldn’t find a priest and summoned the next best thing?”

Softly, Castiel laughs, but never once makes to relinquish the necklace. “Something like that. This should prove incredibly powerful, if you use it. Exorcisms using angelic magic have historically been the most preferred method, but the magic involved in summoning an angel just for the blessing is… taxing, at best.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean snorts. Extending a hand, Castiel finally relinquishes the rosary, albeit with reluctance. Strange, but not unusual by Dean’s standards. “Who’s the angel, you figure?”

“Theliel,” Castiel says, looking around the room. “He resides over love and… Where’s your brother?”

At that, Dean shrugs and sits back, turning over the rosary in his hands. “Shit if I know anymore. Left a few days ago, haven’t heard from him since.” He stops, shakes his head. “He’ll figure it out eventually. For now, I’m just… driving. Hitting up yard sales for these.” Holding up the necklace, he notices Castiel watching the pendant, oddly enthralled. “You got some kinda kink for these things?”

“What?” Castiel asks, blinking repeatedly. “What—No. I should go.”

Dean catches his arm before he stands, rosary still twined around his fingers, and Castiel stares, a question on his lips. “You got any place better to be right now?”

It takes Castiel another minute, but he finally speaks, his voice gravel-rough; a shiver breaks out across Dean’s skin, for reasons he won’t dare admit. “I do,” he says, “but I’d rather… not attend to them.”

“Then you’re in luck,” Dean says with a grin. “I’m low on cash, you wanna hit up the bar with me?”

Castiel doesn’t answer verbally—his eyes do, instead, pupils dilating as Dean slips the rosary around his neck, crucifix dangling freely, beads mingling with the amulet. He swallows, and Dean just laughs, patting his shoulder. “You’re a weird guy, you know that, right?”

“So I’ve been told,” Castiel manages, clearing his throat. “How many people are you planning to swindle?”

“As many as it takes,” Dean says, grabbing for his coat. “Gonna get out of this rathole town, anyway. Might as well do it with a few hundred bucks in my pocket.”

-+-

Castiel lingers longer, nowadays, his presence almost a constant in Dean’s life. Which is more than Dean can say for other people, considering Sam’s lack of communication. Sure, Castiel still disappears more often than not, but instead of fleeting minutes, Dean gets to spend a few hours with him, at the least. In motel rooms, in the front seat of the Impala, seedy diners and even seedier bars—and every time, he catches Castiel staring at the damn necklace and the bracelets around his wrists, the rings adorning his fingers.

One morning, Dean fashions himself a fake lip ring out of a broken paper clip, just to gauge his reaction—Castiel vanishes for a good few hours after catching sight of it, and returns, red-faced but otherwise oblivious.

Initially, Dean chalks it up to a simple infatuation, probably some religious distinction. A faithless man wearing the sign of the cross, like doing so makes him holy. Though, as the hours pass and Castiel begins to venture closer, further into Dean’s comfort zone than he’s ever been, Dean begins to wonder: about why Castiel hasn’t decided to flit off yet, about why he continues to touch Dean when he doesn’t need to, about why every time they come within a foot of each other, Dean experiences a sudden, unexplained surge of want, rushing all the way to his groin.

 _It has to be the necklace_ , he thinks, belatedly, half-asleep and dozing in bed. Any other day, and Castiel wouldn’t even dare to entertain Dean’s existence unless it was of the utmost importance. He has other things to do—he has to find Lucifer, for one. But wherever Lucifer is, Castiel isn’t there.

Because Castiel lingers. Specifically, at Dean’s back, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, his breaths strangely soothing. If only Castiel would stop touching him. Gently, his hand rests atop Dean’s bare shoulder, over the scar seared into his skin; occasionally, Dean can feel his thumb trace the ridges, and comforting as it may be, he still can’t shake the unease flooding his veins.

Said unease only deepens when Castiel’s fingers begin to wander, tracing over his trapezius, along his throat, down to where the beads hang loose around his neck. Dean catches him before he can dip any lower, Castiel’s wrist gripped tight. Never once does Castiel make an attempt to move away, either.

“Okay, what gives?” Dean grumbles, rolling onto his side. Castiel’s thigh keeps him from entirely lying flat on his back, the proximity even worse here than it was before. Now, Castiel touches his chest, and Dean’s heart stutters. Tense, he watches Castiel slide his hand lower, eventually coming to cover the crucifix, clutching it in his fist.

 _That’s it_ , he thinks, swallowing thick. _He was never okay with it._

“You wear this cross,” Castiel says, low as the fog, “like it’s nothing to you. Like the rest of your… trinkets.” He glances to the bracelets wrapped around Dean’s wrists, the rings he never did take off before he collapsed into bed. The amulet that still hangs around his neck, patinated with wear. “You fail to understand the significance.”

“Dude, it’s just a rosary,” Dean scoffs. Castiel’s subsequent glare both terrifies and arouses him underneath the covers. He squirms; Castiel holds him down, hand pressed into his thigh. “Cas—”

“You disrespect the sanctity of the angels,” he growls, edging closer. Dean lets out a breath, bunching the sheets. “Theliel endowed this with a piece of his Grace, and you wear it like he belongs to you.” A tighter squeeze; beads threaten to break. “He doesn’t belong to you, Dean.”

The moan Dean gives is indescribable. Nothing about this should be as hot as it is: Castiel stripping the blankets from around his naked waist, straddling him, all while he tugs at the rosary, arching Dean’s neck in the process. “Cas,” he whines, even higher when Castiel surrounds him, tented slacks pressed against bare skin. Foreheads touch; Dean closes his eyes, willing the bed to swallow him whole. “Cas, it’s not—”

“You misunderstand me,” Castiel says, his breath burning hot against Dean’s lips. “He does not belong to you.”

Fuck— _fuck_. “Bastard,” Dean laughs, biting his lip. “Who taught you how to be jealous?”

“God taught us to be without sin,” Castiel rumbles. Involuntarily, Dean’s hips grind up, and Castiel follows him, lips parting. This is good—this is _wrong_. “But you’ve taught me every sin imaginable. Greed, gluttony, wrath, envy… Lust.” Another grind; Dean throws his head back, panting, grappling at anything he can find. Namely, Castiel’s fabric-clad shoulder. If only Dean could get him naked, could bask in every inch of him.

Instead, he shudders under Castiel’s touch, palm pressed flat over his sternum, crucifix digging a mark into his flesh. “This is not his,” Castiel growls close to Dean’s ear. He licks a stripe along the shell, and Dean gasps, toes curling. “This is mine. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Dean pants. “Yours, yours, oh _God_ —”

Castiel chuckles, low in his throat. “God isn’t here,” he says, mouthing his way across Dean’s jaw. Just the barest hint of teeth, but Dean still groans, coupled with the not-so-subtle grind of their hips. “Worship me, Dean.”

“Cocky bastard, you know that?” Dean manages, just before Castiel kisses him with no finesse. Full lips slide against his own, drawing from him ragged breaths and even more guttural moans. A hand to the small of Castiel’s back, Dean urges them together, closer now, parting his legs enough for Castiel to really pin him down, to work him over like it should be done. “Where’d this come from?”

“You bear my mark.” Palm to Dean’s shoulder, Castiel ruts into him, near-crushing but everything Dean has ever wanted. “Yet you wear the scent of another angel, all for your enjoyment.”

Dean grins, sucks Castiel’s bottom lip between his own. “Only one way to fix that,” he says, sly. Without even looking, he undoes the button on Castiel’s slacks, tugging the zipper down. “So what’re you gonna do about it?”

“I could fuck you,” Castiel purrs, not even the least but fazed when Dean pulls his cock free from his boxers, drawing both of their dicks into his palm. Somehow, listening to Castiel talk is even hotter than feeling him harden, precome slicking his grip. “I could take you from behind,” Castiel continues, closer now, lips brushing against Dean’s own with every word. “I could keep you on the precipice of release for hours, render you incoherent, and finally, just as you think you can’t take it anymore, leave you there.”

A wave of lust heats Dean’s skin, precome dripping from his cock. “Holy fuck, you wouldn’t,” he gasps, and Castiel just smirks and kisses him again, long and languid and robbing him of air.

“I could,” he muses. His hips thrust against Dean’s, breath warm, body scalding. “That would be your lesson, Dean. For forgetting who you belong to, whose mark you wear. But,” and he stops, to join his fingers with Dean’s, beginning to stroke their cocks in tandem. Dean’s gut roils, chest heaving in arousal. “I find this to be more satisfying, watching you. Feeling you tremble. Is this what you want?” His grip tightens, and Dean moans, lip between his teeth. “Is this what you wanted, when you put this on?”

This time, Dean can’t bring himself to care when Castiel picks up the rosary again, pressing the crucifix to kiss-bitten lips. There has to be something blasphemous there, but whatever it is, he lets it slide, so long as Castiel keeps touching him, keeps grinding into their joined hands. “Yours,” Dean begs, reaching out for anything he can touch. Namely, Castiel’s clothed thigh, thick muscles flexing with every shift of the hand. “Yours, make it yours, all of it, _c’mon_.”

In one swift motion, Castiel drops the crucifix and pins Dean’s wandering hand to the bedspread; Dean melts into Castiel’s kiss, more frantic now, more shared breaths than anything else. As one, they strip their cocks, Castiel’s hand broader, almost enveloping Dean’s own. Another day, and Dean will slow down, take his time, memorize just what Castiel’s cock looks like when it’s flushed and dripping. Just from touch alone, he can tell he’s big, thicker than his own but not as long, and his mouth waters at the thought of it, of being split open and stuffed full, of Castiel’s come leaking out of him afterwards.

The anticipation alone topples him over, mouth agape as his orgasm takes hold, robbing the air from his lungs. Vaguely, he can feel Castiel kissing him, sucking dark marks along his throat, to his collarbone, all while he paints his fist white, every muscle in his body trembling. “Good, Dean,” Castiel murmurs into his ear, and Dean’s hips stutter, just from praise alone. “So obedient—”

“Hush,” Dean laughs and bats Castiel’s hand away. With come-slicked fingers, he finishes Castiel off, reveling in the way Castiel moans his name and rides his hand, until he stills. Dean feels him come more than sees him, cock straining and spilling thick into his hand, a few spurts dirtying the crucifix and everything in between. All the while, Castiel holds him close, panting wordless noises into Dean’s sweat-sheened throat. “You’re okay,” Dean soothes, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s temple. “I got you, you’re good.”

“I’ve never,” Castiel pants, shaking his head. “Never…”

On heavy limbs, Castiel falls to lie at Dean’s side, chest still heaving under the layers. In the lamplight, Dean spots his cock, still hard and half-hanging out of his pants; temptation makes him sweat, and temptation leads him to sit up and mouth at his length, just to feel Castiel twitch and writhe under his hands. Even in the aftermath, he still splits Dean’s mouth wide, and Dean teases him, working the last of his come free before Castiel begins to soften, oversensitivity settling in.

“How’s that for a first time?” Dean asks after he lets go and drags Castiel in for another kiss, come on his tongue. Castiel swallows it down hungrily, both hands to Dean’s cheeks. Drawing back, he presses his thumb to Dean’s lips, and Dean kisses it with more tongue than necessary. “Still jealous?”

Ever so slightly, Castiel grins, then glances down to the come-stained rosary. Dean groans, hangs his head; not the first time he’s had to clean fluids off of his jewelry, but this somehow feels dirtier, knowing the meaning behind it. Knowing just how Castiel staked his claim.

“I think you’ve learned your lesson,” Castiel hums, leaning up to kiss Dean’s chin, then his mouth. He covers the brand again, nails digging in; Dean’s eyes flutter closed. “I did this to warn others, that your soul was my greatest work, that whosoever touched you were to face a fate worse than death. Though… now I’ve come to see it as a claim, and for you to remember that even when I’m not with you, I’m here.”

“Romantic,” Dean snorts, and Castiel rolls his eyes. “Think you could’ve been more subtle, though.”

“I think I got the point across.” Castiel smirks—actually smirks, lips curled wryly. “You should wear this more often,” he says, motioning to the rosary. “It’s becoming of you.”

Dean shakes his head; even then, he can’t shake his smile. “Sure it’s not just a reason to get in my pants?”

“It’s that,” Castiel says. “But you also deserve good things. Holy things. Despite your bravado, you have faith, here.” He touches his fingertips to Dean’s heart, where it still beats wildly, solely from being in Castiel’s presence. “Maybe not in God, but in yourself, and those you love.”

“Right,” Dean huffs. Lowering himself back to the mattress, he curls close to Castiel’s side, joining their hands together. _Just to feel him_ , he thinks. _Just to make him stay_. “I’m not… No matter how many times you say it—”

“You are holy,” Castiel assures him with a kiss. Impossibly, Dean warms even brighter, and he tucks his face underneath Castiel’s chin, like that’s all the shelter he’ll ever need. “You don’t have to believe me.”

“I don’t,” he sighs. Closes his eyes. “But I can try.”

**Author's Note:**

> It took me like... a week of beating myself up for not writing anything, but I did it! And it's finally not a coda! Now if I can just... finish other things... orz 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
